Like Lightning
by Evil Fuzzy Bunny
Summary: Shock flooded out of his body, yet left a funny feeling inside of him, the kind that you get when you hit Hokage Mountain full force, because of an all-out punch from Tsunade-hime. OneShot R


Disclaimer: Do not own Naruto.

"_That was…__**fast**__."_

It was like lightning coursing through your body, the shock destroying every nerve in his system that allowed him to think. And as quick as the lightning had struck, it was gone. Shock flooded out of his body, yet left a funny feeling inside of him, the kind that you get when you hit Hokage Mountain full force, because of an all-out punch from Tsunade-hime.

With every movement, every twitch, every breath his head pulses agonizingly, his heart pounds as if he had been under water for a millennia and had finally come up for air and his eyelids droop heavily, begging for sleep, but he knows slumber would only offer him nightmares.

There's blood on his hands, but his memory is blurred, though he's quite sure it's not his own. For a moment he thinks he never wants to wear orange again because when blood splatters, it shows. And he hates the smell of salty copper and stupidly wishes he couldn't breathe.

"_Sort of like photographic __**memory**__, except the picture's all__**fuzzy**__."_

There's a difference between watching your sensei kill someone and doing it yourself, and he knows that now. A decision is made in his thoughts that next time he should consider a less messy way to dispose of someone, but he really hopes there is no next time and he knows that's wishful thinking.

When he reaches home he isn't the least bit relieved, there's an aching in his chest and his muscles twitch, his awareness at full. He remembers reading a book teaching you sixteen different ways to kill a man using only your thumb. He idly wonders if there's just as many ways with all the other fingers and a second after the thought's been finished he's come to the conclusion that something's gone wrong.

He can't sleep that night but his body craves it like a child craves attention. Everything feels heavy, and he can't think straight anymore because all his thoughts surround blood and carnage. He tries to remember the instance where he had murdered for the first time- but the memories are vague and his brain fights tooth and nail to bring it into the depths of his mind.

"_...and lots of__** guilt**__ because you know you just took away__** someone**__ from __**somebody**__." _

He can't remember if the person had brown hair or black, he doesn't even remember the gender and he thinks that the only thing he'll ever be able to remember is the sharp intake of the victim's breath and their lifeless eyes- the colour of which he can't quite grasp. He feels ashamed that he can't even remember his first kill, yet the trauma has not left him.

He knows that guilt is part of being human but he doesn't want to feel it for everyone that dies because of him. His blue eyes have not gone cold, empty, grieved or pained; his reflection only shows sparkling azure eyes, as innocent as ever. But he cannot feel his innocence and wishes it was something tangible because he doesn't want to feel what's replaced it. He doesn't want to look content but understands that old habits die hard, but the thought only makes him flinch because he's stuck on the word 'die'.

He's been an orphan all his life and can't help but wonder if he's left a child out there all alone. A wrench is thrown in his heart, as if someone's twisted it, there's a child alone out there and it's because of him. He feels something cold build up in his eyes, but when they fall they're as hot as lava. There's something heavy inside of him and he feels as if he can't walk but doesn't really mind since he figures he deserves it because he's taken away someone's lover, friend, mother or father, brother or sister, sensei or teammate. And he believes that even if they were someone who had meant nothing to anyone he still deserves it because he had taken someone's right to live, he'd played God and now someone's dead.

He feels filthy, as if he's covered in blood again and when he falls onto his soft bed he thinks perhaps it should've been sharp spikes to meet him instead.

"_Oh, and try not to __**hate yourself**__ too much."_

In less than a week he's back to his old self again, but there's resentment towards orange and something spikes inside his mind when he gets dressed. He's eating a hot dog when droplets of ketchup fall on his clothes and he frowns because it doesn't look ketchup. He suspects that maybe he should've chosen a different colour for a favourite and sighs when he realizes he doesn't really like any other colour. He's confused now because he doesn't really like orange anymore either.

His sensei gives him a smile and continues to read his little orange book, and he looks at the book in a different sort of way because he thinks maybe his sensei's clinging to sanity or if it's the need for something constant since friends never last, everyone dies. And he wonders if he'll outlast his friends or if they'll outlast him, something bothers him with this consideration because he doesn't know which one he wants.

There's a folder sitting on his dining room table that he doesn't dare open, he doesn't want to know who he's going murder but figures it's unavoidable since his sensei will brief his team on it anyways. He moves towards his closet and pulls out clothing that's mostly black, he's ready for the onslaught of blood this time because black's not as bright as orange so it certainly won't show red. He carries a book like his sensei now because he figures he'll need something constant soon too and it can't be orange jumpsuits anymore.

The sharp blade and the movement of his body are as quick as lightning, the day is slowly dying as the sun sets and he can't remember where his second kill ended and his tenth one started. The shock of the first does not continue with the fourth, yet the guilt level rises but something greater develops within and it spikes when he sees the face of the eleventh dead.

When he reaches home he isn't the least bit relieved, there's an aching in his chest and there's a loathing inside of him and he's quite sure it's directed at himself, but his memories are blurred and he can't remember himself anymore. He slowly reaches inside his pocket and pulls out a small book, and immerses himself within it and momentarily forgets the burning revulsion inside of him. The orange has left him, yet he's still covered in blood and he hates the smell of salty copper and stupidly wishes he couldn't breathe.

"…_not to?__** Impossible.**_"

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